Category: Creative Writing

For Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald

 Out of The Remains
of My Mother’s Attic
Out of The Remains
of My Last Half-a-Century
I have salvaged
The Fullness of My Feminine Form
My Ballerina Doll
bought for Me by My Grandmother
after I begged & begged
for a tubby mechanical blond
I watched over & over
in a television Christmas ad
twirling madly in a Little Girl’s Fantasy

 My Grandmother from Alabama took Me
into New York City
to pick any doll I wanted
when there stood only one Ballerina
on the shelves & shelves –
I took Her –
staring distant and blue eyed
with red haired curls elaborately styled
She was the most beautiful Doll
I had ever Touched
She was My Ornament Extraordinaire
never to be played with
never to be named

 She is still dressed like a Degas Ballerina
with Black Ribbon Around Her Neck
sparkles on Her Tutu
She stands stiff and tall
on My Painted Doll Dresser
Not To Be Played With
still nameless
She Is My Real Doll

                                 Joanna Hyde
                                 November 19th 2011  The Hawk

A Typical June Morning

I look over
it’s that time again
3:30 in the a.m. of course.
I’m getting quite comfortable
with this,
especially in mid June,
at three thirty.
It is only one more hour until -
four thirty.
Four thirty is the time of magic
in June.
It’s the time to arise,
to end the torment,
the tossing and turning
it can end at four thirty
because at four thirty
natures alarm rings.
It rings in it‘s glory,
with all the notes of the octave
but only in June – at four thirty.

The Now

Permission is given.
Like a child on Christmas morning,
I rush out of bed
to greet my gift.
This gift I can see
but I don’t know what’s inside.
Where was it left?
In the usual spot.
It’s a shared gift.
One that isn’t always charged
by no-ones fault
or neglect
it just happens some times.

But

This morning
The red light shines like an old star,
a star that will burn for an eternity
or a few more billion years.
The charge is good…

I Write.                                                                             J McSween, June2008

WHAT DID THAT BLACK OPRAH DRESS REPRESENT?

 That “O” Dress
Black Robe
styled from the 50′s
told Me I was powerful –
one of the most powerful women
on the planet –
if not THE most powerful –
My Anger, My Fury,
was justified –
In That Dress
I was The Black Jesus
ready to allow My Self
entrance
into a Mental Hospital
for The Sake of My Person (et al)
Beliefs

 I drank from a very large beaker
sweet Red Wine
called XOXOX
I crossed My Legs
and beat My Right Silver Slipper
into the evening air

 I wore gobs & gobs of silver
jewelry
– all that I owned –
but had the worth of one real estate transaction
under my belt
BOY WAS I MAD –
I shot off the centre
of My Tomato-coloured couch
& stomped around The House
heckling
cackling
&
swearing up
&
down

 I demanded to be taken out to dinner
and My 2nd Husband drove Me
to McDonald’s
in That Get-up
so He got appointed Body Guard
to an exceedingly valuable woman
but went to bed
leaving Me to call 911

 *  *  *

                           Joanna Hyde

                       

November 6th 2011   The Hawk